Clinton Road
by Sk8er Chica
Summary: Tim and Raylan hit the road in search of a fugitive serial killer. Elsewhere, the hunters investigate a notorious haunting, unaware that they've become the hunted. Set during Season 2 of Supernatural and Season 3 of Justified.
1. Chapter 1: The Assignment

**DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING!**

**A/N: This story is an almost-redux of my _Justified _fic "Finally Free." It stars the same OC anyway. This is also my first foray into _Supernatural, _so please be kind. The fic is set in Season 2 of _Supernatural, _right after the events of "Playthings," and Season 3 of _Justified _in general. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Raylan and Tim were at their respective desks filing some long overdue paperwork when Art summoned them into his office. They exchanged looks. Raylan wondered what he'd done _this _time. Tim knew he hadn't personally done anything to warrant Art's wrath and hoped he wasn't being dragged into one of his colleague's messes. Almost at the same time, they slid their chairs back and walked toward Art's door. Raylan dropped into his usual seat in front of Art's desk. Tim remained standing, leaning against the doorframe.

"Gentlemen, we've got a manhunt, times two," said Art by way of a greeting.

"Let me guess," said Raylan. "Wynn Duffy and Robert Quarles?"

Art shook his head. "Pair of grifters from someplace out west by the names of Sam and Dean Winchester. They're wanted for credit card fraud, impersonating law enforcement officers, arson, and tampering with a crime scene, amongst other things. Multiple states."

Tim repeated the crimes, ticking them off on his fingers. "Didn't think any of those were our jurisdiction."

"Yeah, well, this part is," Art said darkly. "Dean, the older one, he's gotta federal warrant outta Missouri for multiple homicides. All young women. Strange thing is St. Louis PD swears they shot 'n killed him."

Raylan frowned curiously. "Maybe they missed?"

Art shrugged. "I guess it's possible, though Missouri tells me otherwise. What they say he did to those girls, I woulda made damn sure he was dead."

"Shit," muttered Raylan. He'd gone after murderers before, but a serial killer was a new one. He supposed Tommy Bucks had been a serial killer, though not in the classic psycho-killing-random-strangers-for-the-hell-of-it sense.

"These two, their particular con is playing psychic." Art went on. Tim and Raylan both raised their eyebrows at this. "They were down in Richmond last week lookin' for ghosts or some such over at EKU. Used one of their phony cards to buy gas. A passerby recognized Dean from the CNN coverage and called in a tip, but they split before KSP could get to 'em."

"And that's where we come in?" Raylan guessed.

"Yeah. I just got a call from the chief out of New Jersey's south district," Art explained. "They've got tips from reliable sources that Dean could be headed into that neck of the woods. They want me to send someone up there to help track these two so we can extradite. These guys are smart. Been on the run for almost a year. It's got legs. And at least one of 'em is considered armed and dangerous. For safety's sake, I'm sendin' Tim with ya."

Raylan didn't protest. Tim was an okay kid and remarkably tolerant of the older Marshal's shenanigans. Art passed them each a copy of Dean Winchester's mugshot bulletin and an envelope containing their _per diem _for the road. Tim offered to take the first shift driving. Raylan welcomed the opportunity to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Once they were in the car, Raylan reclined the seat and tipped his hat over his eyes. He'd just dozed off when the car stopped. Raylan watched through half-lidded eyes as Tim came out of a mini-mart carrying a slush drink and two large plastic bags.

Raylan's curiosity was piqued when his partner set the bags on the console. He started to dig through them while Tim was pumping gas. He discovered a family-size bag of Ruffles, at least 5 XL Snickers bars, various Little Debbie snack cakes, string cheese, Goldfish crackers, and Kellogg's cereal bars. After the pump turned itself off, Tim got into the car. He was precariously balancing his slushie and two microwave ham-and-cheese sandwiches wrapped in napkins. He was already midway through a third. He set the others on the dashboard.

"You sure you got enough provisions for the mission?" asked Raylan, looking slightly amused by the sheer amount of groceries. "If ya wanna run inside again, Tim, I think you mighta left behind that big rack of chips by the door."

"You're the one always bitchin' about how I act when I don't eat," said Tim.

"And for good reason," added Raylan. "You're like a scarier version of that goddamn Snickers commercial. You know, the one where the fella's at the party an' he turns into Joe Pesci?"

Tim motioned at the grocery bags. "Would you rather I go lookin' for a drive-through every couple hours?" he asked, crumpling up the napkin.

Raylan cocked an eyebrow. He wasn't sure even newborn babies ate that much. "How'd you ever make it through Ranger School?"

Tim, now unwrapping a Snickers, shrugged. "Eh, mind-over-matter stuff to take the worst of the edge off. But that don't work when I know there's a McDonald's every 50 yards."

Raylan could see how that made sense.

"You wanna grab anything?" Tim asked, gesturing to the store. "I prob'ly ain't gonna stop again for awhile."

"Just a nap," said Raylan, pulling his hat down over his eyes again.

Tim drove them to I-65 and started heading east. He didn't turn on the radio out of respect for his partner. Raylan was dozing in the passenger seat but could roughly gauge how long they'd been in the car by the intervals at which he heard Tim munching away on something. Tim had enough energy for both of them. He only stopped at two rest areas and made it all the way to Annapolis, Maryland before deciding to call it a night. The Marshals grabbed some bad road food before retiring to a motel.

The next morning, Raylan made an executive decision as senior Marshal that was highly unpopular with Tim. They were to hit the road without breakfast and continue on to their destination.

* * *

In the meantime, elsewhere in the country, Sam took a last look at the Pierpont Inn. It was really a pretty old building now that the malevolent spirit of Maggie was gone. Too bad it would probably be knocked down to build a mall or something. The adrenaline from rescuing little Tyler was starting to wear off. Sam wanted to just take a nap although it wasn't even 10 in the morning. Definitely not in the mood for another "Please kill me if I go to the Dark Side" argument with Dean, but they had one anyway.

Once Dean started the car, he abruptly changed the subject. "All right, Sammy, first thing we're gonna do is find someplace for you to change outta those wet clothes. I just replaced these seats and you're not gonna ruin the leather."

Sam had no objection to that; he was starting to shiver.

"And then we're gonna find you a clinic or something," Dean continued as he pulled out of the driveway. "That little dip you took probably wasn't good for your cast."

Sam nodded tiredly. That was probably a good idea. He wasn't currently feeling any pain from trying to break the poolroom window with his cast, but that didn't mean he wouldn't later. Dean stopped at the first gas station they came to and asked for the key to the men's room, only to be told that the bathrooms were for employees only. The manager refused to bend the rules even a little. Dean finally guilted the guy into changing his mind by telling him that Sam had just rescued a little girl from drowning and was a hero.

After Sam put on dry clothes, Dean got directions to the nearest urgent care center. He stared at the pile of unappealing, ancient magazines on the tables while Sam signed himself in. It wasn't long before the nurse took Sam into the back of the clinic, leaving Dean alone to find some way to amuse himself. He was just about ready to go crazy from boredom when his phone rang. It was Ellen.

"_Got another job__ for you boys," _she said.

"I'm listening." said Dean.


	2. Chapter 2: New Partner

It was late morning when Raylan pulled up to the courthouse in Camden. He and Tim were escorted into the office of the Chief Deputy Marshal. The man seated behind the desk was gangly and probably in his late forties. Light from the desk lamp reflected off his glasses. His gray hair was buzzed into a military cut and he wore a Marine Corps ring.

"You the Marshals from Kentucky?" he asked.

"Yessir," said Raylan. "I'm Raylan Givens 'n this is my partner Tim Gutterson."

"I'm Chuck Royal," the man said, shaking their hands. "How was the trip?"

Raylan shrugged. "Quiet...'cept when I didn't have exact change for the toll." He chuckled. "Ain't been cussed out like that in a while."

"Yeah, those toll collectors aren't always the friendliest," agreed Chuck. "You two're here on the Winchester case, correct?"

"Yessir," Tim confirmed.

Chuck went on, "I went ahead and paired you up with one of my Marshals. She's only had her badge for about a year and been with us since she finished Glynco. Came to us after 4 years in the Coast Guard. Nice kid. Street-smart, never gives up. She's actually out in the field on another case right now, but she should be in soon; I called and told her you were here. I think you're really gonna enjoy working with her."

A young woman all but dragged herself into the courthouse. Clutching a Starbucks white chocolate mocha like a lifeline, Deputy U.S. Marshal Angela Devaney knew she was only conscious and upright due to a combination of adrenaline and stubborn force of will. She'd been subsisting for about 36 hours on Gatorade and chocolate milk because she was so preoccupied with work, pinballing across the state after fugitives. She reasoned it was better than just drinking water; at least Gatorade and milk contained some vitamins and calories. However, Angela had been both blessed and cursed with a metabolism that burned everything off as quickly as she took it in, so the liquid diet was wearing her down. A migraine from low blood sugar throbbed in both temples.

Angela steadied herself and flinched slightly when she caught sight of her reflection in the shiny elevator doors. With the deep circles under her eyes, she looked like hell. She sighed as she entered the car and pressed the button that would take her up to her boss's office, hoping the caffeine jolt would give her the strength to make it through another 12 hours or so. She also prayed the elevator wouldn't stall again. There had been maintenance problems with it lately and she'd rather not have to be rescued from it by the local fire department. She made a mental note to freshen up in the locker room before meeting Chuck.

* * *

"Well, that took long enough," grumbled Dean as Sam emerged from the back room of the clinic.

His gruffness masked how relieved he was to see that Sam no longer had the cast.

Sam sighed. "It's not my fault, Dean. They had to do X-rays and then develop 'em. Then they couldn't find the saw and tried just about everything else they had to get the cast off."

"Glad you're back in fighting shape, Sam, 'cause we got another case."

Sam fought back the urge to groan. He was mentally and physically exhausted after everything that had happened the last few days. The last thing he wanted to deal with was another ghost or demon.

"Ellen called," said Dean in a low voice, leading Sam outside. "Mysterious activity down a stretch of road in Jersey. West Milford, I think. She was real sketchy on details, so this is right up your alley. Plenty of research." He grinned at his little brother, but Sam didn't grin back. "You're in a good mood today."

"Dean, let's just go," said Sam tiredly. "I mean, we're gonna whether I like it or not."

Dean nodded. "That's true." He opened his door. "Let's hit the road, Sasquatch."

"Don't call me that," muttered Sam.

"Goin' to Jersey," Dean repeated, fishing through his box of cassette tapes. "You know what that means."

Sam certainly did: alternating between Bruce Springsteen's greatest hits and Bon Jovi's _Slippery When Wet _album.

* * *

Raylan, Tim, and Chuck sat making small talk until there was a knock on the door.

"I bet that's her," said Chuck. Raising his voice slightly, he said, "Come in!"

The office door opened and a woman entered the room, sweeping off her Marshals baseball cap. Her stature caught the Marshals from Kentucky off-guard. By Tim's estimate, she was about 5'2" and a buck-twenty-five at most. She was clad in black boots, U.S. Marshals polo and matching windbreaker, and khaki BDU pants; her badge was on a dogtag chain around her neck. Tim was amazed she'd been able to find tactical boots that small and admired the thigh rig her service weapon was resting in. A few strands of honey-colored hair had escaped from the elastic holding her ponytail in place.

"Chuck." she said with a nod, standing between Tim's and Raylan's chairs in textbook at-ease position.

"Hey. Didja get him?" asked Chuck.

"Sat on the house all night and not a sign of him," said the woman, breaking her stance to run a hand tiredly across her blue eyes. "I'm not sure whether he made us or just found himself another girlfriend we don't know about yet." There were elements of both the North and South in the woman's accent, something Raylan found intriguing.

"Don't worry, Ang. You'll get him." said Chuck. "Boys, lemme introduce you to your partner, Angela Devaney. Angie, this is Raylan Givens and Tim Gutterson from Kentucky. They're gonna work the Winchester case with you."

"Nice to meet you guys." Angela covered her mouth as she let out a huge yawn. "Sorry. I'm on the wrong end of a lot of overtime right now."

"Nothin' to be sorry about," Raylan assured her, though this was only half-true.

Though Raylan freely admitted to being a workaholic, pushing through exhaustion like Angela clearly was made you more susceptible to making errors in judgment. And in their shared line of work, even a slight mistake could result in death or injury to yourself, your partner, and/or civilians.

The female Marshal jumped into the case with both feet. "Well, lemme show you where my desk is and I'll get you the list of tips I have. I'll start calling people and then we can go out and start interviews-"

"Angela," Chuck cut in, "it's almost 12:30." He gestured to the three deputies. "Any of you eaten yet?"

There were headshakes all around. Raylan also lifted his eyebrows noncommittally. He wasn't hungry but willing to let majority rule. He'd seen Tim fidget in his chair a little at the mention of food.

"You gotta be sharp to catch a guy like Winchester," said Chuck. "Might be a good idea to start fresh after lunch."

Tim picked up on the subtle tones in the Chief Deputy's voice that meant it wasn't exactly a suggestion. Angela apparently did too because she said, "Sure thing, Chief." She took a keyring out of her pocket and twirled it around her finger. "I'm gonna go ahead and start the car."

"Okay," said Chuck. "I'll send the guys down in a minute." Once the office door had closed, Chuck sighed and turned to Raylan and Tim. "Angie's a great kid, she really is. Lotsa drive and discipline from being in the military and her nature in general. But she never did learn how to pace herself. She'd burn herself right out if I'd let her. Good luck finding Winchester. Enjoy your lunch."

Raylan walked out to the parking garage and found Angela sitting behind the wheel of one of the government-issue black SUVs, which made him slightly nervous. A woman as tired as she looked should not be driving. Tim had slipped out without the older Marshal noticing and was in the passenger seat. Raylan got himself settled in the back seat.

"We're going up north," Angela informed him.

Tim frowned. "I thought you told your boss we were goin' to lunch."

"And we will. When we get there," she said smoothly, starting the car.

"We're goin' on their trail, aren't we?" Raylan asked.

"The Winchesters are creatures of habit. Always pull the same psychic/ghost hunter scam in every town," Angela said. "No shortage of supposed hauntings in this state."

"Then how're we supposed to find 'em?" asked Tim.

"Most of the charges on those phony cards are for motel rooms," Angela explained. "Never the big chains. Always cheap little mom-and-pop operations just a step up from the junkie/whore hotels." She motioned to a computer printout on the console. "Around here, most of 'em are down the Shore and close up shop when the tourists leave town. Narrows it down a hell of a lot for us: inland and near the Barrens or the state line."

Tim glanced through the printout. He counted at least 20-30 motels, most in different towns. So much for getting lunch...


	3. Chapter 3: Motel Tour

In the meantime, Dean was driving down the highway, poorly singing along to "Wanted Dead Or Alive" as it blared out of the tape deck. Sam didn't find this terribly amusing for a couple of reasons. First, Dean really _was _wanted by the feds as well as numerous local jurisdictions. Sam was afraid Dean's stubbornness and cocky attitude would get him killed, or at least severely roughed up, if they were to get caught. Second, Sam had really been hoping to catch a couple of hours of sleep on the way to New Jersey. Loud music he was used to, but doubted anyone could sleep through his brother's caterwauling.

* * *

"Is there some reason we're not just callin' these places?" Tim asked as Angela parked the truck outside the Leeds Inn.

"They never check in under their real names," said Angela. "Always aliases." She grabbed a copy of Dean's mugshot off the dashboard and got out. "Can't show them this over the phone."

Angela, Tim, and Raylan walked into the lobby. Angela had maneuvered herself to be at the front of the group. Raylan would normally object to be shunted aside by a rookie, but Angela knew the area infinitely better than he did; he'd never even set foot in New Jersey before and neither had Tim.

"Can I help you?" asked the sour-looking desk clerk. His build put Raylan in mind of Eastern Kentucky meth-heads.

"Yes. I'm Deputy Devaney with the U.S. Marshals Service-"

"That's still a thing?" The clerk looked surprised.

Angela ignored this and doggedly continued, holding up Dean's mugshot. "Have you seen this man? He's a federal fugitive wanted for murder. It's extremely important that we find him."

"Why would I know where this guy is?" demanded the clerk.

"Maybe he's a guest of yours," Raylan offered.

The clerk shoved the paper back across the counter. "Haven't seen him, lady."

"Someone else may have checked in for him," said Angela. "White guy, about 6'4", skinny, shaggy black hair?" She showed him a photo of Sam.

"Look, lady, I don't know nothin' about no murders." He jabbed a finger at Sam's picture. "And that guy's not staying here."

Angela passed him a business card. "If either of 'em walks in, call this number."

The desk clerk grunted something in response and waved the Marshals toward the door. Angela fished the list of motels out of her jacket. With a sigh, she crossed off Leeds Inn.

* * *

Dean passed a road sign that read "Welcome to West Milford."

"We're here, Sammy," he said loudly.

Sam, who'd just managed to nod off, was not happy. He blearily observed the scenery passing by his window. So far, West Milford looked like any other small town they'd visited over the last year. But both brothers knew that appearances could be very deceiving. Dean drove a little outside of town and pulled the Impala into the parking lot of the closest motel, an establishment called the Sinatra Inn.

"You go check us in," Dean told his little brother. He couldn't take the risk of someone recognizing him from the coverage about the murders in St. Louis.

Sam unfolded his lanky frame from the passenger's seat and went into the motel's office. He got them their usual: a double room and two room keys. Sam went back to the car to grab his backpack and to give Dean his key. He unlocked the door to Room 11. The wood-paneled walls and plush, dark blue carpeting gave the place the feel of an old-fashioned living room. The headboards and bedspreads were powder blue, putting Sam in mind of the Blue Rose Motel in Indiana. A portrait of Ol' Blue Eyes himself hung on the wall between the two beds.

Sam put his backpack on the nightstand and collapsed bonelessly onto the nearest bed, his feet dangling off the edge due to his height. The Sinatra Inn was kitschy, but at least Dean had finally found them a place with decent mattresses. Sam draped his recently healed arm across his eyes and let out a slow breath, hoping to continue the nap that had been rudely interrupted.

Peace was not to last. Dean came into the room, pushing the door shut with his boot heel. Sam deliberately stayed still. He heard the distinctive _thump _of the duffel bag full of weapons hitting the other bed. Dean looked over at his little brother and shook his head. They'd spent their childhood and the last year of their adult lives in such close quarters and Sam still thought he could fool him?

"Sam." No response. Dean leaned over and rapidly snapped his fingers right next to Sam's ear. "Come on, Sammy. I know you're not really asleep."

Sam reached out to push his brother's hand away. "Cut it out, Dean." He moved his arm enough to expose one eye. "What is your problem?"

"Time for lunch, Sasquatch. I'm starvin' here."

Sam is hardly surprised by this. Sometimes, he swears Dean was born with a bottomless pit instead of a normal stomach. It certainly wouldn't be the weirdest thing to ever happen in their family.

"Look, Dean, I'm really tired," Sam sighed. "Just go by yourself."

"Sammy, you know the best place to start research in a town like this?"

"The library?" Sam suggested.

"Your friendly neighborhood waitress," Dean said with a wolfish smile. "I need you along in case she's the rare breed that's immune to my undeniable charms. Besides, you're bitchy...well, bitchier than usual anyway-"

"Am not." interrupted Sam.

"And you'll feel better after you get somethin' to eat."

Sam wanted to take full advantage of the opportunity to spend the afternoon in a comfortable bed. He stretched out even farther on his back.

Dean crossed over to the door and opened it. "You comin' or not...bitch?"

Sam's stomach grumbled. He sighed defeatedly and started pushing himself out of the bed. "Hold on two seconds...jerk."

* * *

In nearby Newfoundland, the Marshals were crossing another motel off their list of possibilities. Tim covertly watched their female partner from his seat in the truck; Angela's complexion had paled after their brief jaunt across the parking lot. Definitely not normal. She was two years his junior and in prime physical condition. Angela rubbed a hand across her forehead as if trying to ward off a headache.

"You all right?" Tim asked.

They were sitting in the truck with the heat on, but Angela had made no efforts to back it out of its parking spot.

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Angela, tucking the list back into her jacket.

Tim noticed the slight tremor in her hands as she did so. He recognized the symptoms of somebody who'd been running their body into the ground and was about to have it catch up with them. Lord knows he'd reached that point enough times during his military career. Tim himself was starting to feel the effects of not having eaten all day; he was a little bit dizzy and had definitely been irritable with the last desk clerk. Civilian life had spoiled him. In his Ranger days, he'd been able to go 2-3 days without food and not really feel much.

"Shit," she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We're running outta places to look."

"Well, you left your card," said Raylan. "If these places are their M.O., you're bound to get a call."

"Sometimes I think it was easier finding people out in the middle of the goddamn ocean," Angela muttered.

Tim nodded in agreement. "Not as many places to hide. Afghanistan's a bitch that way."

Angela backed out of the parking space and navigated them back to the main road.

"Where we headed now?" asked Raylan.

"Frank's up in West Milford." Angela replied.

That didn't sound like a hotel to either man. "Snitch?" Tim guessed.

"Frank's Pizza," she clarified. "I'm startin' to think huntin' a serial killer on an empty stomach ain't the smartest plan."

"Probably not," acknowledged Tim, although he'd tracked terrorists in the same condition.

"Pizza's okay with you guys, right?" she said.

"Sure," Raylan shrugged.

"I ain't picky to begin with and my belly's growlin' like a wildcat," drawled Tim.

Angela spent the rest of the short drive extolling the virtues of Jersey-style pizza: "You have just one slice and you'll _nevah _go to Pizza Hut again, I sweah ta God." Her accent wasn't strong, but she did drop the "R"s on certain words.

Frank's turned out to be a family-owned pizza parlor in a small strip mall. Angela parked the truck, got halfway out, and froze. She had gone pale again, her gaze locked on a car a few spaces over. Tim and Raylan had noticed it too: a midnight black 1967 Chevy Impala. Someone was obviously babying it because it looked almost new. The tags were from Kansas. These specs were familiar to all the Marshals; this was the same car that was listed on Dean Winchester's "Wanted" bulletin.

"I'll be damned," said Raylan.

Angela removed her ballcap and stripped off her windbreaker, stashing her badge in one of the side pockets. She tossed both items onto her seat. "Ditch yours too," she hissed, gesturing to Raylan and Tim's jackets.

"Ang, you're gonna freeze to death," warned Tim.

"We can't afford to spook these guys," said Angela. "That happens, they'll bolt to some other town and we lose our shot. Be nice to stop the bastard before he kills somebody else."

Tim somewhat reluctantly stashed his jacket in the car. "Does give us the element of surprise. What's the entry plan?"

"I'll walk in first and ask for a table," said Angela. "You two stay right behind me. I'll make contact with 'em, so be ready with the cuffs."

Tim nodded. Seemed like a sound enough strategy to him. Raylan discarded his Marshals jacket too.

"Ladies first," he said with a gracious tip of his Stetson.


	4. Chapter 4: Busted

Sam looked up from his Caesar salad when he heard the bell over the pizza parlor door jingle. Three people entered: a middle-aged man in a cowboy hat, a guy in his mid-to-late twenties, and a woman who barely looked 21. Sam began to sense that something was a little off. Cowboy hats weren't exactly a common sight in New Jersey, but maybe he was tourist. Suspicion turned into full-on paranoia when Sam saw the holstered Glocks on the men's hips and the woman's thigh. From his understanding, New Jersey's handgun laws were pretty strict; these probably weren't friends on their way back from the shooting range. The way they were dressed meant either they were plainclothes detectives or feds.

"Holy hell, I'm hungry," the woman was saying.

The group made a beeline toward the counter to order, the younger guy stopping to grab three sodas from the cooler. They passed right by the Winchesters' booth without seeming to notice either brother. Sam let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

'_They're probably not even looking for us,' _he thought. _'Just some cops getting a late lunch/early dinner/whatever you call eating this time of day.'_

The woman finished the pizza order (extra cheese, Italian sausage, and pepperoni) and started looking for a booth. She had her pick since the restaurant was virtually empty, but she headed in their direction. There was no tension in the lines of the woman's body as she moved, but her actions were calculated; her dining companions remained standing by the counter. Her blue eyes roved over Dean's face, studying his features.

_'Oh shit. They **are **looking for us,' _Sam realized in horror.

"Dean," he said in a low voice, trying to warn him.

All he got in response was a muffled "I'm eating" from Dean, who had a breadstick in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other. The woman had stopped short by their table.

"Dean Winchester," she said.

Dean turned his head, mouth still stuffed. The woman produced an I.D. card and held it up close to his face.

"I'm Deputy U.S. Marshal Angela Devaney," she introduced. "Stand up and put your hands on the table."

Very slowly, Dean finished what he had in his mouth. "I have one of those too," he said, pointing to the card. He offered Angela the easy grin that usually made women's knees buckle. "Cute picture, sweetheart."

"Get up and put your hands on the table." Angela's voice was firmer now.

The two guys with Angela (fellow Marshals, probably) walked over to block Dean's escape routes from the booth. All Sam could do now was watch helplessly.

"Son, take my advice and do what the young lady says," said the man in the Stetson, who had a pronounced Southern accent.

Dean stood up, turned his back on the woman, and laid his palms flat on the tabletop. Small, quick hands roamed over his chest and into his coat pockets; Angela ignored Dean's warnings about being ticklish. The keys to the Impala and the motel, an empty pack of peanut M&M's, and a wadded-up receipt were dropped unceremoniously onto the table. Angela didn't find anything in his waistband or on his belt. Some of the staff were leaning curiously out of the kitchen to see what was going on.

Raylan flashed his badge. "U.S. Marshals," he announced. "Just stay put. Everything's under control."

Angela took a half step forward and wedged the toe of one boot between Dean's heels. "Spread your legs," she instructed.

When Dean didn't immediately comply, she grabbed the back of his jacket and leaned her weight into him. At the same time, she pushed her foot against the one Dean wasn't putting as much weight on. Angela's height meant an elbow was digging painfully into Dean's kidney. The elder Winchester was caught off-guard and his legs slid further apart. His wallet joined the items on the table when she started frisking him again.

"Whoa," Dean chuckled. He twisted his head around to address the young male Marshal. "You got a real pocket pistol on your hands. Usually I'm not the one bent over a table."

"Shut up," the guy replied.

Angela hardly heard that conversation over her heart pounding in her ears; she'd just discovered his boot knife. Dean felt cool metal against his wrists, then heard a familiar _click _followed by the equally familiar words: "Dean Winchester, you're under arrest." Angela couldn't believe she had just captured her first serial killer. Dean didn't look the part, but, well, Ted Bundy hadn't either. Sam started to get up, but Tim grabbed his shoulder.

"Where do you think you're goin', Stretch?" he asked.

"You can't arrest me." said Sam. "I haven't broken any laws."

"Yeah, ya did," said Raylan. "Harboring a federal fugitive from justice. Aidin' and abettin'. That'll get ya some good jail time."

Sam had a feeling they'd see right through him if he tried to say he didn't know Dean was a fugitive.

"Of course, if this is a Patty Hearst situation, things might be a little different," added Tim.

Sam couldn't say he was along on this crazy road trip because he was kidnapped or otherwise coerced. As much as they bickered sometimes, Sam loved his big brother with all his heart. Now they were the only family each other had left; they had to stay close. Of course, Sam had never imagined that they'd be going down together for crimes Dean hadn't actually committed.

"Look, we can explain everything, okay?" said Sam.

"You can do that in Camden while we're waiting on your extradition papers," Raylan told him.

Raylan patted Sam down while Angela got on her cell phone to call Chuck. He figured Tim and his patented Ranger glare had Dean pretty well under control. Angela swore loudly after she hung up, then informed her partners of the situation. Apparently, Chuck thought it would be too risky to transport the Winchesters together; he'd send another team to drive the second brother and Camden was about two hours from West Milford.

"So we gotta sit here and wait for backup?" Raylan guessed.

"John Wayne time, guys. We're on our own," Angela confirmed.

Dean, recognizing the quote, nodded approvingly. "_Backdraft. _A modern classic." He turned to his sibling, who was now handcuffed on the opposite side of the booth. "Who's your brother, Sammy?" he asked in a poor imitation of Kurt Russell.

Sam rolled his eyes. What had Dean done to them now?


	5. Chapter 5: Lunch Break

"'Scuse me, Marshals," said the manager. He patted the box sitting on the pick-up counter. "You still want this pie?"

"God, yes," Angela answered, double-timing it over to the counter.

She gathered up the pizza box, the sodas they'd abandoned by the register, their order of breadsticks, and paper plates. Raylan put Dean on the inside of the booth and sat down himself; Tim followed suit with Sam. Angela returned to the table and passed out the sodas: Cokes for Tim and Raylan, Sprite for her. Raylan shifted the Winchesters' plates out of the way to make room for the pizza box. Angela sat on the outside edge of Sam's side of the booth, tucked against Tim's ribs...not that either of them seemed to mind.

Angela pulled back the lid of the box. It was unlike any pizza that Raylan had ever seen: generous portions of toppings on an impossibly thin crust; the slices were enormous. Steam was still rising from the top.

"Deputy Gutterson ain't been fed yet today, so you might not wanna put your hands too close to his mouth," Raylan warned good-naturedly as they all reached for slices.

Raylan eagerly lifted his piece to his mouth. The gooey cheese weighted down the tip so much that it dangled limply, making it impossible for him to take the first bite. Grease threatened to drip onto his favorite pair of blue jeans. Frustrated and feeling incredibly stupid, Raylan looked to Angela, who was shaking grated Parmesan over her own slice.

"How're you s'posed to eat this stuff?" he asked.

"Oh, that's easy," she said. "Like this." She folded her piece in half like a taco.

Raylan mimicked her and was able to taste the pizza. The underside of the crust was soft, the sauce tangy but sweet. The pepperoni and sausage gave it a spicy kick. Damn right he was never going back to Pizza Hut again. Tim was already working on a large mouthful of his own.

"Oh my God," said Tim in a low voice, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

This was probably the best pizza he'd ever eaten in his life. Of course, everything has a way of tasting better when you're extremely hungry. Whenever he came back from a long patrol in the desert, a lukewarm MRE became an amazing feast.

Next to Raylan, Dean was seriously considering putting his face into his plate and just going to town. He was still hungry, goddamn it, and Sam probably was too. The kid had hardly gotten to touch his salad...which really wasn't much of a lunch anyway as far as Dean was concerned.

"Hey, Sammy, isn't this cruel and unusual punishment?" Dean asked.

Sam frowned, not sure what Dean was talking about.

"I mean, we're sittin' here in handcuffs, these guys are eatin' in front of us." Dean went on. "It's not just bad manners. It's torture."

Sam thought it was hypocritical for Dean to be making comments about anyone else's manners. But the fact remained that he hadn't eaten all day and was starting to get a little lightheaded. Sam glanced sideways at the Marshals next to him.

"Sir. Ma'am. Is there any way you could uncuff me and my brother?" he asked. "I mean, just long enough for us to finish our food. I swear we won't run off. We're just hungry. Please."

The Marshals looked at each other. Sam and Dean having both hands free was an absolutely unacceptable risk, no matter how sincere Sam sounded. Cuffing them in the front would also be a bad plan. With the charges Dean was facing, he had basically nothing to lose. Who was to say he wouldn't go after one of them and try to escape? On the other hand, the prisoners might be inclined to be more cooperative if they had some food in their stomachs.

There was one other option to restrain the Winchesters, though it was decidedly old-school. Angela tapped Tim's shoulder, jerked her head in Sam's direction, and offered her wrist. Tim had a sudden vision of Sam bolting for the door, dragging Angela behind him like a cowboy tied to a horse in an old Western. Besides, that arrangement would require them to switch seats in the booth.

Tim quietly voiced his thoughts. "There's no way I'm cuffin' a li'l thing like you to Stretch here."

Dean overheard this. "Awww, c'mon. Ol' Sammy hasn't been that close to a girl in months."

"My point exactly," said Tim.

Tim uncuffed Sam's left arm, which was on the far side of the booth, and closed the cuff around his own left wrist. Raylan cuffed Dean's left hand to his own right arm. Dean sighed and rolled his freed shoulder.

Raylan leveled a stern finger at the elder Winchester. "You try anything funny and Tim's gonna hit you in the face," he warned.

Dean was too interested in grabbing more pizza to think of a comeback for that. Sam munched on a forkful of his Caesar salad only to find the lettuce was now completely limp and soggy. He made a face, then pushed the dish away from him. Dean noticed this. He nudged the pizza he'd ordered for himself closer to Sam's side of the table so they could share. It contained almost every topping known to man; Sam clumsily picked off the ones he didn't like with one hand.

By now, Tim had eaten his first slice down to the crust and was reaching for a second. He started to eat it at warp speed. Sam figured it was just his luck to wind up chained to someone with table manners on par with Dean's. Tim swallowed hard and looked sheepishly at Angela.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I'm normally pretty civilized for a former Ranger."

Angela shrugged. She hadn't exactly been eating daintily herself. Tim was relieved to see that some color had returned to her cheeks. He hadn't really wanted to get into an argument with her over driving duty after seeing the way she went toe-to-toe with Dean; there was clearly some lean muscle in that skinny body of hers. Tim opened the other box to grab a still-warm breadstick.

"Goddamn, these are good," said Tim around his first bite. He gestured to his plate with the hand wasn't cuffed to Sam. "You can have my crust if you want, Ang. I've had all my shots."

"Except maybe distemper," said Raylan.

The Winchester brothers were currently speaking in hushed tones about their last psychic scam. Something about hoodoo curses and an evil little ghost girl at a bed-and-breakfast in Connecticut. As far as odd lunch breaks went, this was right up there with the time that Tim had been sent to procure some fried chicken to defuse the Cal Wallace hostage situation. That day still lived in infamy at the Lexington field office.

One-and-a-half of the massive pizza slices was more than enough for Raylan. Thin crust be damned, it was heavy as lead. Tim was on his third piece, Angela her second. Raylan had lost count of how many breadsticks the younger Marshals had polished off. The prisoners had gone quiet, so he figured their appetites were satisfied. Angela finished her slice, scavenged Tim's crust, and took another sip of soda. She finally felt full.

Tim tossed his crumpled napkin onto his plate and held back a burp. "I think I ate too fast."

"You sure it wasn't too much?" joked Raylan.

Since Angela was the only person at the table not handcuffed to someone, she gathered up all their trash to throw away. Raylan and Tim stood up along with the prisoners. The male Marshals cuffed Sam and Dean's arms behind their backs again, then picked the brothers' personal effects off the table. Angela grabbed the box containing the Marshals' leftover food and the group went out to the parking lot to wait for the other transport team. Roughly an hour later, it arrived.

Sam, having no violence on his record, was handed over to the second team of Marshals in just handcuffs. Angela, Raylan, and Tim would drive Dean. The female Marshal was taking no chances with their prisoner; she wanted to put the elder Winchester in leg irons and a belly chain. Neither of those items were in the back of the SUV, though.

"Do I really have to ride bitch?" Dean griped as he was pushed into the middle of the backseat.

"We promise not to trade ya for cigarettes," said Tim, settling himself in the rear passenger seat. "More courtesy 'n you'll get where you're goin'."

"Yeah, supermax ain't no church picnic," added Raylan, sitting on Dean's other side. "We're good to go, Angela, honey."

Angela started the truck and pulled out of the Frank's parking lot.


	6. Chapter 6: Prisoner Transport

**A/N: Apologies for not updating in so long. Life (AKA wrapping up my last semester of college) happened. Hope you guys are still gonna read this and sorry if this chapter is weak. P.S. I don't own any of the lyrics in this chapter.**

* * *

Under normal circumstances, Angela left the radio off during prisoner transports and the like. This was partly to avoid drowning out important noises and partly to avoid starting some kind of fight. But today was different. Angela had been awake for too long; the adrenaline high from capturing not one but two high-priority fugitives had now worn off, causing her to slide dangerously close to drowsy. She supposed she could pull over and let one of her male counterparts take the wheel, but there was a chance Dean might escape. Besides, Angela didn't think either of them knew the state well enough to get them back to Camden from where they were.

This left Angela with the tactic that had kept her conscious on the long road trips to visit her family when she was on shore leave from the Coast Guard: loud music. She tapped the ON button of the SUV's control panel, steeling herself for a game her fellow Marshals called Radio Russian Roulette. Technically speaking, nobody was supposed to change the presets, but everyone Angela knew who ever checked out a car from motor pool did. The results of this practice produced another office game: Who Drove This Thing Last? For example, if there was an even split between death metal and country, bearlike Marshal Evan MacCabe was the prime suspect.

The first button Angela pressed yielded the Yankees' pregame show. She hurriedly jabbed the next button; she hated the Yankees with a violent passion (the Mets too since she was a lifelong Atlanta Braves fan). The next preset station was NPR; the third was country, one of Toby Keith's more recent travesties to music. Tim noticed her flinch.

"_Red Solo cup, I fill you up, let's have a party!" _Tim sang purposely off-key and exaggerated his Kentucky accent.

Angela quickly changed the station.

"Aw," said Tim with a fake puppy-dog pout. "It was just gettin' to the good part."

Preset 4 turned out to be a classic rock station, much to Angela's relief. She twiddled the volume knob to a few notches below what she preferred and settled back in for the drive. She tapped her thumbs on the steering wheel in time to the current song "Dr. Feelgood."

"I'm guessin' you guys are from outta town," Dean said of Raylan and his cowboy hat.

"You could say that," Raylan conceded.

He dipped his head toward the front seat. "Guess that means she's the local. Hey, Angela."

"Marshal," she corrected sternly.

Dean ignored this and tried to scoot closer to the gap between the front and back seats. "So since this is your home sweet home, you must know pretty much everything about...well, everything." He usually left the research to Sammy, but he couldn't resist the opportunity to chat up a nice-looking local. Never mind that said local had frisked him and thought he was a serial killer. "Can you tell me anything about Clinton Road? 'Cause the desk clerk made it sound like it's the freakin' Twilight Zone."

"Oh yeah, there's all kindsa crazy stories," said Angela. "Little ghost boy on the bridge. Satanists sacrificing animals in the old castle. Druid temple out by the reservoir. They say that if you go in the woods, there's hellhounds and crossbred escapees from Jungle Habitat."

"No alien abductions?" Tim deadpanned.

"None reported anyway," said Angela. "But there's one account about Clinton Road that isn't bullshit."

"What's that?" asked Dean.

"Well, the road's out in the middle of nowhere, probably how the rumors about secret Klan meetings got started." Angela began. "It doesn't get much traffic, so it's a perfect place to hide a body. Back in the day, the local Mafia used it as a dumping ground. God forbid you got lost in West Milford at night and ended up on Clinton 'cause there was a chance you might end up a witness to gangsters leaving some poor bastard's body in the woods."

"Did they actually kill anyone out there?" Dean wanted to know.

Angela shrugged. "I don't think so. But, hell, I wouldn't be surprised if a few bodies were never found. People disappeared back then and nobody knew nuttin'."

Two hours later, Angela, Tim, Raylan, and Dean arrived at the courthouse in Camden. Sam's transport team had beaten them there by a few minutes.

"I wanna see my brother," demanded Dean.

The Marshals predictably ignored this. They frogmarched Dean to one of the interrogation rooms. Angela cuffed his right wrist to the table, then left the room to report to her boss.

"From what I hear from Raylan and Tim, you did good out there," Chief Deputy Royal said. "World's a lot safer with Dean Winchester off the streets. Since you caught him, I've been on the phone with so many jurisdictions that I lost count. They all want a piece of these two. Gonna take at least a few days to straighten this mess out."

"Mind if I go question Dean for a while?" said Angela.

"Angie, it's getting late."

She gestured to the wall clock. "It's only 7:30."

Royal sighed. "I'm sorry, but I really can't let ya. You're maxed out on overtime for the month."

"What about Raylan and Tim?" she suggested hopefully.

"I already sent 'em back to their hotel. You can give 'em a call after we figure out who's bein' extradited where. Go on home, get some sleep, and you can take a crack at him in the morning."

Angela knew Royal's hands were tied and resigned herself to postponing her first interrogation of a serial killer. "Okay. Good night, Chief."

Meanwhile, Dean had noticed something lying on the floor almost out of his reach: a single bobby pin. He grinned to himself; their luck had turned for the better. He even had a plan in case he couldn't get to the pin. At the small of his back, a handcuff key sat in a hollowed-out portion of his belt. Angela hadn't found it because the hole was on the inside of the belt, against his jeans. Dean's left hand was free, so now all he had to do was pick his moment. Then he could get Sam and get them the hell out of this building.


	7. Chapter 7: Breakout

Angela went out to the employee parking garage; as she had earlier, she spun her keyring around on a finger but with significantly less energy now. She found her metallic silver Jeep Patriot in its usual parking spot. They say that you can tell a lot about a person by looking at their car and Angela Devaney was no exception. A small sticker on the Jeep's back windshield declared her allegiance to the New Jersey Devils hockey team; her license plate frame bore the Coast Guard motto "Semper Paratus." The interior was uncluttered and a tropical-scented sandal air freshener dangled from the rearview mirror.

She got into the front seat and rubbed her eyes vigorously. Angela was extremely grateful that her father's real estate connections had been able to help her find an apartment in Cherry Hill, which was 5 miles away. Otherwise, she'd probably just lock all her doors and curl up in the backseat. Maybe not the safest plan, but she had a sidearm. Angela hooked up her iPod to the stereo, turned it to "Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya" by the Dropkick Murphy's, and cranked the volume as loud as she could stand. The blaring bagpipes echoed as she pulled out of the garage.

When Angela got to Cherry Hill, she was even more thankful that her apartment was on the ground floor. She unlocked her door, bolted it behind her, and took off her boots. She practically fell face-first onto her couch and was asleep within a minute.

* * *

Back at the courthouse, Dean realized he hadn't heard any activity going on in the Marshals' office for quite some time. He chanced a peek out the small window in the interrogation room door. As impossible as it seemed, nobody was there and the only light was coming from someone's desk lamp. Dean was doubly glad that he had the handcuff key; without it, he and Sammy would've been chained to tables all night.

Dean used his free hand to fish the key from his belt. Once his arm was unlocked, he went to the room next door. Sam startled.

"Dean!" he said. "How did you-"

Dean held up the key in response and unlocked Sam's cuff. They walked out into the Marshals' office.

"Dean, we gotta go before somebody figures out they left us up here," Sam said in a hushed voice.

"I'm not goin' anywhere without my keys," said Dean, stepping further into the room and squinting through the semi-darkness at the nameplates on the desks. "Sam, what was that chick's last name?"

When they were brought in, he'd watched Angela put the envelopes containing their property into a drawer that was most likely attached to her desk.

Sam frowned and closed his eyes, trying to remember. "Well, it wasn't a real common one," he thought aloud. "I know it started with a 'D.' DeLuise, maybe?"

"Eh, doubt it, she's kinda hot."

Sam decided not to point out that Dean considered at least 65% of the female population to be on a sliding scale of hotness. He had to focus on the matter at hand. Angela's last name was absolutely "D-e" something. Delano? No, that didn't sound right either. He had a nagging feeling that it was probably Italian, though.

For reasons he wasn't entirely sure of, something suddenly clicked in Sam's brain. "Devaney," he said, snapping his fingers.

"Yahtzee," Dean said.

He was standing by the corner desk where the lamp was still on. Dean liberated some paperclips from a jar and picked the lock on the desk drawer. He grabbed two manila envelopes with their names on them, shoved the contents of both in his pockets, left the drawer wide open, and headed for the door. He stopped in his tracks.

"Shit," Dean muttered. "I don't know what they've done with my poor baby."

He went back to Angela's desk and tore through it, looking for the address and/or phone number of the nearest impound lot. Once he had it in hand, he realized another problem.

"Goddamn it, there must be alarms everywhere. We're in a freakin' courthouse!"

"Probably," Sam agreed. "But I bet they're more concerned with who's coming _in _here than who's going out."

"Yeah, I hope you're right, Sammy."

Sam and Dean took the stairs down to the lobby, where they were able to walk right out the front door. No sirens sounded. No night watchmen jumped out of the bushes. With a little difficulty, they found the impound lot, which was about a mile away. Noticing that the guard shack was occupied, both brothers produced fake badges from their wallets. They did a little song-and-dance about being state police detectives that needed to drive the 1967 Impala to the local crime lab to process it for evidence. The kid in the guard shack either didn't know it was standard procedure for cars to be towed to the lab or didn't care.

"Think he bought it?" asked Dean in a low voice once they were out of earshot.

"Seemed like the kid was more interested in whatever he was reading than what we're up to," Sam replied.

"Yeah, wonder who that reminds me of." Dean spotted the Impala and ran a loving hand over the roof. "Oh, baby, Daddy's so sorry the strangers touched you."

Sam chuckled. The way Dean felt about the car was borderline unhealthy. They both got into the Impala. Dean started the car and carefully edged through the narrow lot. He tossed a friendly wave at the guard shack as the kid opened the gate for them. Once they were on the main road, Dean revved the engine.

"All right, Sammy, think you can get us back to the motel?" he asked.

Sam nodded, retrieving the maps and a small flashlight from the glove compartment.

"Good," Dean praised, "'cause we're gonna have to grab our stuff and find somewhere else to stay, pronto. They're gonna come looking for us again."

"I dunno if that's the best plan," Sam started. "I mean, we're checked in under McGillicutty anyway. And you never know, the Marshals coulda tipped off other motels in the area."

"Well, then we'll just find an empty house somewhere to squat in," said Dean. "It's not like we haven't done that before."

Sam really didn't like that idea and hoped Dean would change his mind. The odds of that were slim given how hardheaded his big brother was. And besides, nobody ever said the life of a fugitive was glamorous.


	8. Chapter 8: In for the Night

Sam could feel himself drifting off. He dutifully called out directions to Dean when asked, hoping that his brother remembered at least some of the turns he was supposed to make once they got to West Milford. Dean had the radio cranked up, drumming on the steering wheel and shouting the lyrics to "Livin' On a Prayer." The older Winchester never seemed to tire, which was good when they were hunting but annoying as hell on these car trips because Dean refused to stop for the night.

"C'mon, Sammy, you know the words," said Dean, lightly punching his little brother in the shoulder.

"Dean, I'm trying to concentrate," Sam said, squinting at the map; he was so tired that all the twisting lines were starting to run together.

"You, uh, wanna grab some dinner, Mr. Cranky Ass?"

"I'm fine." Sam said shortly. "You know, food isn't always the answer to everything."

"You're right," Dean agreed. He grinned and added, "Sometimes, it's sex."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Preferably with a girl who's at least an 8," Dean went on. "And I'd say that Marshal chick is an 8. You see the ass on her?" He whistled. "What would you rank her, Sammy?"

"We are not seriously having this conversation," muttered Sam. "Dude, she arrested us."

"I've been tellin' ya for years: Good girls go for bad boys. Besides, you're just mad 'cause she didn't frisk you."

Sam's jaw dropped. "I am not!" he sputtered out after minute. "Did you forget that she thinks you're a friggin' serial killer?"

"But I'm not, so it's all good."

"Just-just drive, okay?"

It was Dean's turn to roll his eyes. He really thought that Sam would've grown out of these moods by now; he was almost 23 years old, for God's sake. Not that this attitude had been any less irritating when Sam was a teenager. Dean turned the music up higher, mostly because he liked it and also to keep Sam awake. Dean wasn't entirely sure how to get back to the hotel, so he needed his copilot. It was close to midnight when they reached West Milford; at long last, Sam saw the fedora-shaped neon sign for the Sinatra Inn gleaming up ahead. Dean pulled into the space in front of their room and left the car idling.

"All right," he said, "go grab our stuff, check out, and we'll hit the road again."

Sam nodded, his eyelids at half-mast. Dean watched his brother fumble with the key before successfully unlocking the room. He went inside and shut the door behind him. Dean knew it should take all of 30 seconds for Sam to grab all their gear; they hadn't even had a chance to unpack. Several minutes passed and Sam still hadn't returned.

"What the hell's he doing in there?" Dean said under his breath, shutting off the Impala and getting out to investigate.

When Dean entered Room 11, it was completely dark. He stepped in further and almost tripped over one of Sam's boots. As Dean's eyes began to adjust, he noticed Sam's flannel shirt wadded up in a ball next to the bed closest to the door. Sam himself was under the covers of that bed, sprawled out on his belly and hugging the pillow. His breathing was deep and even. Dean was relatively certain his sibling wasn't feigning sleep this time.

"Great timing, Sammy," sighed Dean.

They were running from the law (yet again) and the feds might've tipped off the clerk about them. They needed to get themselves out of the area as fast as possible. If Sam was right about the Marshals canvassing other motels, they'd just have to sleep in the car on the side of the road somewhere. Dean walked around the bed toward the nightstand, leaned over, and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam didn't seem to notice.

"Come on, Sammy, we gotta roll," Dean said, giving his brother a little shake. Sam didn't respond, so Dean shook him again. "Don't make me carry your ass."

Sam burrowed deeper into the blanket, his bangs flopping into his eyes. Dean sighed again and crossed his arms. He knew Sam hadn't been sleeping much lately between the nightmares about Dad's death and his unpredictable freaky psychic visions; the latter really took a lot out of Sam. Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the kid look so peaceful. And come to think of it, his own head was starting to get a little heavy.

"All right, kiddo," Dean yawned. "You win."

The older Winchester turned and flopped face-first onto the second bed, not bothering with blankets.


	9. Chapter 9: Wake-Up Call

Tim Gutterson's internal alarm clock woke him a little before 6 AM. He pulled on a pair of gym shorts and his Ranger T-shirt, then headed downstairs to check out the hotel's fitness center. The mid-range chain provided a few treadmills and ellipticals crammed together in a stuffy room just off the indoor pool. Tim still had his morning routine, though, so he logged a few miles on the treadmill. He dried the sweat from his face with a thin hotel towel before going to the breakfast bar in the lobby. Very few guests were awake at this hour, so it was still fully stocked. Tim surveyed the offerings: blueberry muffins, apples, miniature boxes of cereal, bagels, oranges, yogurt, bananas, oatmeal, and a station where guests could make their own waffles.

Tim poured himself a cup of black coffee, then grabbed a plate. He picked up a muffin and a banana before turning his attention to the waffle iron. He was pleased to see that it would produce fairly large waffles. The directions were simple enough to follow and in no time, he had three steaming waffles on his plate. The only flaw was that the plates were so flat that syrup ran right over the edges and made a sticky mess everywhere. He sat down at the closest table to dig into his breakfast. Afterward, he grabbed a couple of apples to snack on later.

In the elevator on the way back up to his room, Tim wondered idly what he could do while all the local agencies and various Marshals Service field offices had their jurisdictional pissing contest over the Winchesters. "Hurry up and wait" was nothing new to him; he'd made that his career as a sniper. He hoped there was something good on TV at least.

* * *

Roughly an hour later in Cherry Hill, the alarm clock on Angela's phone blared the guitar intro to Motley Crue's "Kickstart My Heart." She didn't hear it at first because the phone was still tucked in one of her pockets. After it played a third time, she began to fumble for her phone. Once she managed to find it and stuff off the alarm, she sat up. Angela felt rested despite the fact that she'd spent all night on the couch. She ran a hand through her hair and discovered it was disgustingly greasy.

'_First order of business: a long shower,' _she thought, walking down the hall to the bathroom.

She stripped out of her clothes and stepped under the hot spray. Angela squirted twice the usual amount of shampoo into her palm, lathering vigorously. Sometime later, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a red-and-white Everlast robe to blow-dry her hair. Angela's hair was fairly thick, so she lost patience and cut the dryer off while her hair was still slightly damp. She went into her bedroom and dressed in a navy blue polo shirt, another pair of khaki BDUs, and black BDU belt. In front of the mirror, Angela applied some sheer pink lipstick and put pearl studs in her pierced ears, her way of maintaining her femininity on the job. She gathered her hair into a high ponytail and put on her Marshals cap.

Angela normally wasn't a breakfast person, but the after-effects of her liquid diet and the fact that she hadn't eaten dinner the night before had her stomach growling insistently. She went to the kitchen, where her portion of the Marshals' leftover pizza was waiting. She started a slice, but had no time to finish because she had to leave for work. She drove to the neighborhood Starbucks for her morning white chocolate mocha plus a bagel with cream cheese.

When Angela reached the Marshals' office in the courthouse, the first person she saw was Royal. He looked grim.

"I just got off the phone with the guard downstairs. Told him we were gonna need him to bring the Winchester boys up from the holding cell," he said. "They aren't down there and there's no booking paperwork on either one."

"Then where are they?" asked Angela.

"Our holding pattern up here, I hope," said Royal. "Otherwise, they've been in interrogation rooms all night and that'll make for a hell of an ugly lawsuit."

"I'll go look for them," said Angela, setting her coffee and remaining half of her bagel on her desk.

She went into the very back of the Marshals office, unlocked a heavy steel door with a tiny window at the very top, and poked her head inside the holding room. She turned and shook her head to signal to her boss that no one was there. Angela hurried to the interrogation room where she'd left Dean. When she opened the door, she found a vacant chair; her set of handcuffs dangled from the table rail. She checked the room next door, which should've been occupied by Sam, and discovered another empty set of cuffs.

"Oh fuck," Angela muttered. "Chief!" she called to her boss. "They're gone."

"Gone?" Royal repeated.

"They were right here in these rooms when I left last night," Angela said, her voice a little shaky.

"How'd they manage to get loose?" asked Royal.

"I have no idea," she replied.

"Their car's impounded, so they shouldn't have been able to get too far," said Royal.

Angela checked her desk drawer and found it hanging open. The envelopes labeled SAM WINCHESTER and DEAN WINCHESTER were still there, but the contents were gone.

"Oh my God," she said. "They got their keys back."

"They couldn't have gotten the car off the impound lot, at least I hope they didn't." Royal shook his head. "Why wasn't that stuff downstairs with the property clerk?"

"I locked it up in my desk before you called me in your office and sent me home," Angela explained. "I figured that you told Evan or someone to take care of it."

Royal couldn't believe his most squared-away rookie had done something so careless. Now a serial killer and his accomplice were on the loose somewhere. He went into his office, picked up his phone, and dialed. First thing he had to do was send out an all-points bulletin to every law enforcement agency in the state.

Angela was horrified by the consequences of her assumption. Desperate to fix it, she said, "Chief, I know I really fucked this up. What can I do to help?"

"Oh, I think you've already done enough, Deputy Devaney," Royal said coldly. "Type up your incident report about this mess, get it to me, then go home and take a couple personal days while I figure out what I'm gonna do about you."

Angela nodded, poker-faced. "I'll have your report before lunch, sir."


	10. Chapter 10: Fallout

**A/N: For anyone curious about Royal's attitude in the last chapter and this one, it's a case of him blaming the first person he found for the Winchesters' escape.**

* * *

Dean Winchester was decidedly not a morning person. The family business made for long nights more often than not and the fuglies they chased had a tendency to knock the brothers around. If Dean had his way, he wouldn't face the world until at least noon. Trying to stay a step ahead of a federal warrant, however, did not permit that. He cursed inwardly, seeing the glowing numbers 8:30 on the alarm clock. Dean got dressed and headed out to make a supply run.

When he got back to the room, Sam was still in bed, cuddled up to his pillow. Dean decided to do something a little gentler than trying to shake Sam back to consciousness (it didn't usually work anyway). He crouched down next to Sam's bed, holding a half-caf double vanilla latte at nose level. (Sam owed him one; Dean was embarrassed about ordering the thing). His not-so-little brother stirred and grabbed for the cup. Dean pulled it away.

"Ah-ah-ah, ya gotta get up first," he said.

Sam squirmed around, untangling himself from the blanket cocoon he'd created during the night. Dean picked up Sam's flannel shirt from beside the bed and tossed it at him. Sam finally forced his eyes open and was slightly unnerved to see Frank Sinatra grinning down at him.

"I wore this yesterday," Sam said, voice still rough from sleep.

Dean straightened up and shrugged. "Doesn't smell bad. Put it on, grab your shit, and let's roll. I got breakfast out in the car."

It was too early in the day for Sam to argue with his brother, so he pulled on the shirt and got out of bed. He snatched the coffee cup out of Dean's hand before grabbing his coat and backpack and lacing up his shoes. When he got to the Impala, there was a blue and white box sitting in the middle of the front seat.

Sam read the writing on the front. "Peanut Butter Kandy Kakes." He raised an eyebrow. "This is your idea of breakfast."

"Hey, anything you eat this early counts as breakfast," Dean said. "I was gonna get doughnuts, but this cute girl at the Gas 'n Sip told me Tastykakes are way better."

Dean ripped the box with one hand and pulled out a package containing two chocolate-covered cakes, then tore the cellophane open with his teeth. He shoved about half a cake in his mouth at once, made a loud noise of approval, and washed it down with some black coffee. Pie would always be his favorite dessert, but these were up there. Sam curiously opened a package of his own and broke off a corner of a cake. The sponge cake was moist and fluffy; the peanut butter was sandwiched between the cake itself and the chocolate coating. Overall, not bad...not that he would admit it. Sam had protect his reputation as the Winchester family health nut.

"So where are we going anyway, Dean?" Sam asked.

"We're only a couple hours from the state line," said Dean. "We'll slip across, find somewhere to lay low, and get back to the case tonight when the heat dies down."

Sam shook his head. "That's a bad idea."

"Yeah, and why's that, college boy?" Dean challenged.

"Leaving the state is the first thing they'd expect us to do," Sam explained. "They're probably setting up roadblocks right now if they haven't already. And as far as the cops are concerned, you're a serial killer. It's only gonna get hotter."

"So we'll go back to the Sinatra."

"Federal warrants usually mean rewards, big ones. The clerk didn't look too close at me when I checked in, but once this hits the news...I mean, what he's charging us a night is a spit in the ocean compared to, say, $10,000."

"Okay, do you have any better ideas, Sammy?" Dean asked. "'Cause I really don't wanna end up in 'squeal like a pig' federal prison."

"And you think I do?" Sam said, annoyed. He took a long drink from his coffee cup. "But, no, I don't have any ideas. Running from the cops is still kinda new to me, Dean."

"Well, that's just freakin' perfect," Dean muttered.

* * *

Deputy Marshal Evan MacCabe wandered into the office, late as usual. He cut an imposing figure at 6'4" and close to 250 pounds. Tough on the job, the big man had a heart of gold and goofy nature off the clock. He was a few years older than Angela; they were pretty close friends because he'd helped break her in on fieldwork when she started with the Marshals.

"Hey, Angie," he greeted his coworker with a wave and a big grin.

Angela didn't look up, hardly unusual when she'd lost herself typing a report. Evan walked up to her desk and playfully reached for the half-eaten bagel beside her keyboard. She didn't slap his hand away like she usually did when they played this little game.

"Ev, please," she said tiredly. "I gotta finish this up for Royal before I go home."

"Go home?" Evan repeated. "Are you sick? Is this a sign of the zombie apocalypse?"

Angela didn't have the patience to ask what the zombie apocalypse had to do with her leaving work in the middle of the morning.

"He gave you the day off for catching the Winchesters, didn't he?" Evan asked. "I heard you got 'em. Nice work."

"Yeah, and I got 'em and lost 'em all within about 10 hours," Angela said. She gave him a tight, fake smile. "Must be a record."

Evan frowned confusedly. "Lost 'em how?"

"They escaped," Angela replied shortly. "Sometime last night. Don't know how, not that it really matters." She swallowed hard, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice. "And I'm in some shit because of that. When I'm finished writing it up, boss wants me to take a couple personal days."

"He's suspending you?"

"Not formally."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm sorry." said Evan.

"It doesn't," she said. "And don't be. It was my responsibility."

Angela clicked the PRINT button on her computer screen. Whirring and clicking from the corner signaled her incident form and narrative reports were being prepared. She closed and saved the documents before shutting off her computer. Angela picked up the rest of her bagel, then tucked it back into its paper bag. She retrieved her reports from the printer and knocked on the door of Royal's office.

"Come in," he said.

Wordlessly, Angela laid the papers on his desk. Royal looked them over and nodded to signal they were all in order.

"Thank you, Deputy Devaney." said Royal. "I'm gonna have Evan take over with the Kentucky boys for now...not that we can talk extradition without the prisoners." It was a subtle jab and so was addressing her formally. Royal was on a first-name basis with all his Marshals unless you'd recently made a big mistake. "I'll be in touch."

"All right, Chief."

As Angela headed for the employee parking garage, a single desperate thought ran through her head: _Please don't fire me_.


	11. Chapter 11: The Lore

**A/N: Apologies for the long hiatus. I've had writer's block like you wouldn't believe. Hopefully this chapter didn't turn out too terrible.**

* * *

When Angela returned to her apartment, she immediately went to her bedroom. She took her hair out of its ponytail and removed her work clothes. She changed into her favorite baggy sweatpants with the Coast Guard logo on one hip, a souvenir Universal Studios T-shirt from when she'd been stationed in Florida, and New Jersey Devils hoodie. She paced the length of her room a few times before going out and settling herself on the couch with the TV remote.

The only options this early in the day were Jerry Springer and Maury Povich. In the past, these shows had, in ways, been therapeutic for Angela when she was feeling bad about her life. She could think: "Well, at least my 'man' hasn't been sleeping with my mother and I don't have 5 kids by as many fathers." But now, even though her situation wasn't worthy of Maury or Jerry, Angela still felt that her life's figurative train had derailed. She'd made mistakes before (enough to fill a book during Basic and early days with the Coast Guard). The Winchesters' escape was a whole new category of error.

Like Tim and Raylan, Angela had grown up in Kentucky. She had never been able to put her finger on why, but there was something about the state itself that made her want to get away, as far as possible. After high school, she drove all the way to Cincinnati to meet with a Coast Guard recruiter. Weeks later, she boarded a bus to Cape May, New Jersey for Basic. She'd been to various duty stations and, except for the occasional trip home on shore leave, she'd never looked back.

Last year, Angela had been contemplating re-enlistment when she tossed her hat in the ring for the Marshals Service. She baked in the Georgia sun at FLETC and finally received the coveted star. It was thrilling when she'd been assigned to the New Jersey field office and the Garden State felt more like home than Kentucky ever had. All Angela could think about was the real possibility that her days in Cherry Hill could be numbered. Royal might think her screw-up was enough to warrant being transferred to Alaska (or worse, back to Kentucky. Raylan Givens had become a cautionary tale throughout the Marshals Service).

She thought briefly about calling a friend or family member back home to get her feelings off her chest. Angela had one hand in her hoodie pocket to grab her BlackBerry when she decided against it. She was so embarrassed about losing the Winchesters that she didn't want anyone else to know about it, at least not unless she had to notify people of a new address. Angela returned her attention to the controlled chaos on the screen, eyes shining with tears that she was too proud to let fall.

* * *

"So this is your big plan?" Sam asked several hours later. "Just drive in circles around New Jersey all day?"

"We're sharks, Sammy," Dean replied. "We stop moving, we die...or go to federal prison."

Sam frowned, wondering where Dean had picked up that little fact about sharks. His brother had never shown much interest in biology...well, not unless it was the kind he could practice himself with French-kissing and roaming hands.

"It's called 'hiding in plain sight'," Dean went on. He pulled off the road into the crowded parking lot of a nearby diner; snack cakes hadn't been enough breakfast...or lunch.

They ended up having to wait a while for a table, which wasn't too much of an issue. They weren't really in a hurry to get anyplace in particular. Once they'd been seated, Dean ordered his usual double cheeseburger with bacon; Sam asked for tomato soup and grilled cheese.

"Live dangerously, Grandpa," Dean joked.

Nothing was said between the brothers while waiting for their dinner to arrive. Sam broke the silence with: "Please tell me you at least know _something _about Clinton Road. I don't wanna be going in blind." It really bothered Sam that he hadn't been able to do any research for this case.

"Yeah, I talked to that Marshal chick yesterday," Dean began. "If she's right about that place, we're really gonna need to bust out the big guns."

"Why? What's out there?"

"Freakin' everything," Dean said. He ticked things off on his fingers. "There's a bridge with a ghost kid. An old castle where Satanists slice and dice furry things." Sam flinched at that; he'd always been an animal lover. "Hellhounds. Mafia ghosts."

"Mafia ghosts?" Sam repeated, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his bangs.

"Mafia ghosts," Dean confirmed. "The locals would go out there for a little 'Leave the gun, take the cannoli' action."

"Did she mention Jimmy Hoffa at all?" asked Sam.

Dean didn't catch the sarcasm and waved a hand dismissively. "Jimmy's buried in Giants stadium; everybody knows that." He motioned to Sam's half-finished sandwich. "Eat up, Sammy. Looks like we're gonna have a long night ahead of us."


End file.
